


your friend, your queen

by icygrace



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: 16th Century Medical Treatment, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:43:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icygrace/pseuds/icygrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You will do whatever it takes to see her survive?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	your friend, your queen

**Author's Note:**

> My made-up 16th century treatment is a very primitive and rather gruesome version of the modern stuff, since Nostradamus seems to know things others don’t. Bear with me and forgive any inaccuracies.

_Kenna_? Today Lola’s wearing that pretty green dress of hers that brings out her eyes. No doubt she wants Kenna’s emeralds for it. They’re not of a size and height, so they can’t share dresses, but they always share jewels. Neither of them have sisters, so it’s rather nice to pretend.

 

Kenna’s never told Lola how much those emeralds mean to her, how she rarely wears them herself because they’re so precious, because she doesn’t want Lola to feel that she can’t ask for them. They were the last gift Mother gave her, before she had Callum –

 

 _Kenna_ , Greer says, releasing her shaking hands to reach under her veil and tuck back an escaped curl, the gesture so gentle it makes her want to cry –

 

 _Kenna!_ _I am more than your friend. I am also your queen and I_ command _you to_ –

 

\---

 

Kenna’s pangs intensify quickly after her waters break so she does not endure them very long, bringing two healthy babies into the world without losing overmuch blood.

 

“You’re young and healthy. With rest and good food, you will regain your strength easily,” the midwife promises.

 

The day after her labor, she looks at herself in the mirror despite Lola’s laughing admonitions to avoid it ( _as a new mother, the looking glass is not your friend_ ). She doesn’t look terrible, but her color seems rather too high for someone who’s not engaging in any strenuous activity, cheeks pink in her otherwise pale face. Perhaps she’s overexerted herself as her restlessness and stubbornness have led her to rise from her bed and walk about their chambers before she’s ready, all so she might lean over their sleeping babies and marvel at them.

 

But she refuses to admit that she feels a touch shaky on her feet when Bash returns. She’s just hungry. They can send down for food and eat together now that he’s returned.

 

He smiles at the sight of her, her favorite smile of his, as he comes to stand beside her by the crib. “I know they’re rather wonderful, but you need to rest. Go back to bed.”

 

“But Bash –”

 

He brushes a kiss over her forehead, likely to silence her protests, but quickly pulls away, suddenly stern. “ _Kenna_. Would you prefer that I carry you?”

 

She shakes her head, but just as she’s about to take his offered arm, her knees buckle.

 

\---

 

Bash is lucky to be close enough to catch her as she faints dead away. He hollers for a servant, a guard, anyone, to fetch the physician so loudly that Mary would later swear she heard him clear across the castle.

 

“When I kissed her, her skin was hot to the touch. When she fainted, she burned like an ember in my arms,” he says, recounting it all to Mary and Francis in a dull monotone. “If only I –”

 

The court physician and the midwife have both just informed him there is nothing to do but to try bringing down the fever than burns ever-hotter.

 

\---

 

“I’m loath to admit it, but the bastard serves you well. With Narcisse forever skulking about ready to strike, Conde and the kitchen boy will not suffice.”

 

Mary is not entirely sure where Catherine is going with her words, but she doubts it’s anywhere good.

 

“It’s in your best interest that he keeps a clear head. Allow him to leave court for a time to mourn –”

 

Mary wishes nothing more than to tear the skin from her mother-in-law’s face. “God help me, Catherine, if you do not _shut up_ –”

 

It seems Catherine has some shred of decency left in her, because she does.

 

Francis shoots his mother a look as venomous as the one Mary knows herself to be wearing, but his words are clipped and carefully sarcastic. “Yes, Mother, send Bash off to the countryside with children he can’t bear to look at. Excellent plan.”

 

So tiny and new, not even named yet, but they’ve already got Kenna in their faces.

 

The nursery maid told her Bash had ordered them moved out of their chambers to the nursery. While the maid said he must fear their becoming ill, “since no one knows what’s wrong with Lady Kenna,” Mary and Francis know him and suspect the truth is rather different.

 

“She’s still here and Bash is already devastated at the _thought_. If she –” Francis shakes his head and takes a sharp breath. Then he looks at Mary, so much pain in his eyes that she knows he is picturing himself in his brother’s place.

 

Her own miscarriage had hurt them both deeply, nearly unbearably. She still feels pangs of envy when she looks at Lola with Jean-Philippe and is reminded of her empty womb and empty arms.

 

But what matters most is that Mary is still here and they are still able to try again.

 

The thought that her friend might not remain with them – with her husband, her children ( _her_ , Mary adds selfishly, because she cannot lose another friend) – breaks her heart. “She won’t. She can’t.” Not for the first time, she wishes that being queen meant she could force fate to bend to her will. She finishes her wine in a single gulp because it isn’t so.

 

Catherine sighs after a long swallow of her own. “Every hour that passes she’s less likely to wake. That’s the way of it.”

 

It – this is _awful_. It was awful to lose Aylee, of course, but that was sudden and unexpected. There had been nothing to do to prevent it.

 

Now Mary is in a state of suspension, feeling as though she ought to do something to ensure a different outcome but being utterly impotent and useless. She hates it.

 

And that’s when she has an idea.

 

\---

 

“I want every man we have out looking for Nostradamus. It is a matter of life or death.”

 

“Must it be Nostradamus, Your Majesty? No one’s seen hide or hair of the man or even heard word of him since he left court.”

 

The new court physician and the midwife have healed others, but clearly Kenna’s case is beyond their skill. So who’s to think anyone but Nostradamus could help her now?

 

Mary turns on the captain of the guard with a fierce glare. “It must. If he does not return willingly, drag him here. If you do not return with him, you’ve failed your king and your queen. The king's deputy will lead you.”

 

Though Mary was afraid to get his hopes up, Francis insisted. _Bash needs something to_ do _. Else no matter what happens, he’ll blame himself._

 

But if Mary has her way, there will be nothing for Bash to blame himself for. Kenna _will not die_ on her queen’s watch.

 

\---

 

Nostradamus’s angry, defiant expression softens when they bring him to the sickroom. He promises that so long as they keep Catherine far away from him he will do all he can to save Kenna. He asks Mary to stay behind but sends everyone else away so that he might work, even Bash, who protests mightily.

 

Nostradamus is worryingly grave after he completes his examination.

 

Mary resists the urge to worry her lip. “What is it?”

 

“From her symptoms, it seems that she did not fully deliver the afterbirth. Likely it’s become infected and sickened her, even now slowly poisoning her. It’s a miracle she’s not dead yet.”

 

“And you will make sure that miracle holds and she does not die.”

 

He half-shakes his head, but Mary will not accept that.

 

She won’t. “You will.”

 

“I have never known a woman survive this. And she’s been ill long enough that she may be too weak for the only treatment that may help.”

 

“But if we do nothing, death is certain?”

 

“I believe so.” He must have suspected, even before the examination. That’s why he asked for her instead. Himself a widower, he probably couldn’t bear to be so blunt with Bash. “Unless one of my tinctures cures the infection, but it’s unlikely in such a case.”

 

“So do what you must. Let the guilt be on my head and the blood on my hands if she does not survive it.”  May God have mercy on her soul.

 

Though it’s only a moment, it feels like an eternity passes before he nods. “Likely with the infection and the passage of time, the afterbirth has hardened. It must be softened enough that it can be expelled from her body. It will be painful beyond words.”

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

He hesitates. “It is bloody work, Your Majesty – Perhaps another man, for it requires some strength –”

 

She knows Bash can bear unimaginable pain himself, but she’s not sure he could bear inflicting it on Kenna, even to save her life. Perhaps Francis – She shakes her head. “My ladies and I will do it. She is our friend and we will be strong for her.”

 

Finally Nostradamus nods. “The strength of mind to do what you must matters just as much as, if not more than, strength of the body. You will do whatever it takes to see her survive?”

 

She nods, squares her shoulders, and summons her friends.

 

\---

 

It’s a horrifying process.

 

Kenna has been unresponsive since she fainted in Bash’s arms, but she stirs from her torpor as they place the wet cloths pulled from a basin of boiling water and smooth, fire-warmed stones on her abdomen. Nostradamus holds her down as tries to twist away from them, writhing in pain.  

 

“It’s not the heat,” Nostradamus says. “Not entirely. She’s in pain besides. That means it is working. Take the tea –” A brew of pennyroyal and rue, commonly used to end pregnancies. It’s supposed to cause her womb to contract as though she were in labor again, helping to force out the afterbirth.

 

Nostradamus had feared they would not be able to use it, as they could not get Kenna to swallow it while insensible. But now that she’s somewhat responsive and they’ve applied enough heat to see an effect, it’s their cue to stop with the cloths and the stones, at least for the moment.

 

“Hold her head still and pour it down her throat, slowly. Be careful she doesn’t choke on it.”

 

Lola doggedly does the holding, resolutely biting her lip.

 

Now skilled at getting her stepchildren to take all sorts of nasty-tasting things for their own good, Greer pours.

 

It’s slow-going and near impossible, but the two of them eventually succeed in getting Kenna to ingest enough of the concoction to satisfy Nostradamus, who has them begin another round of hot cloths and stones while it takes effect.

 

\---

 

“You will sit at her back to keep her upright and help her,” Nostradamus tells Mary before they begin the truly difficult work. “And the two of you, you will each hold one of her legs to make sure they stay properly spread. And I –” he takes a deep breath before steeling himself. “I will reach inside and remove the remains of the afterbirth. Whatever happens, you must not let go.” After washing his hands in a basin of water with lye ( _helps to prevent infection_ , he explained earlier), Nostradamus is ready to begin his bloody work. “God help us all.”

 

Kenna screams and screams, sounding more animal than woman as she seeks to escape the hands causing her such terrible pain. They don’t let her – they _can’t_ let her – though her continued cries are far more wrenching than any sound she made during her labor.

 

Mary feels tears pouring down her own face, distraught at the sight of her friend in such excruciating agony and at her own part in it.

 

Lola and Greer look very nearly sick to their stomachs at the sight of the pain they’re all causing, but determined, as sick yet determined as Mary feels herself.

 

She’s grateful for the guards she had posted at the door, because the screams ring so loudly that it’s entirely possible they could rouse Bash from his drugged sleep. Knowing what was to come and that nothing in the world could keep him from entering if he heard Kenna in the sort of agony Nostradamus expected should the treatment succeed, Mary gave Francis a vial to tip into his brother’s wine – from Nostradamus, of course. She’d never trust anything Catherine gave her for use on Bash, her stated appreciation of his work as king’s deputy notwithstanding.

 

As asked, Francis had dragged Bash away to _give Nostradamus room to work. You won’t help matters by hovering over him_.

 

Bash had nearly hit him – the last thing he wanted was to leave Kenna alone at such a moment – but thankfully complied.

 

None of them can afford to be distracted from their task by anything, least of all a terrified, fiercely protective husband, not when Kenna’s very life is at stake.  

 

That is why Mary cannot really spare anything else a thought. She must focus all her energies and pour every ounce of her strength into helping her friend through a gruesome simulacrum of childbirth, one that will expel the remnant that is now killing her, hoping and praying all the while that it will be enough to save her.

 

\---

 

“– Stay with us, _please_ , Kenna.”

 

She blinks. Suddenly everything is so very _bright_.

 

Haggard and visibly exhausted, dark smudges under her eyes, Mary leans over her, flanked by Greer and Lola, the three of them smiling even as tears cascade down their cheeks.  


End file.
